The Weekly ToDo List
by oftimeandspace
Summary: George loves lists. They don't necessarily return the feeling.


_1. Make fancy dinner for anniversary w/ Nina_

It was, he had to admit, one of his best meal plans. Pasta alle melanzane (what where a few disgusting bites of eggplant in the face of love, anyways?), tenderly braised leg of lamb, washed down with an appropriately subdued wine (Mitchell had better not have been making up his suggestions, the prat), followed by a chocolate and whipped cream raspberry filled masterpiece.

One of his best plans, most definitely.

Or it was until he ate a bit of the leftover cake batter and discovered that werewolves, like their more friendly and less supernatural canine relatives, were apparently gravely allergic to chocolate.

He spent the remainder of the afternoon alternately heaving up the meager contents of his stomach, weeping into the blessedly cool porcelain of the toilet seat, and wondering why today of all days had to be the one that Annie chose to go off on some sort of ghostly adventure, leaving the once perfect leg of lamb to start burning unattended.

Halfway through creating back-up plan B-14 (sod it all and take Nina out for an ironic date of cheap pizza followed by a few hours spent skulking about the fringes of the dancefloor at the weekly 80s night pub party) the front door was flung open with a crash that reverberated through the floor underneath him and made his stomach twist upside down.

"Oi, George!" Mitchell's voice wafted up the stairs, followed by the muffled sound of footsteps and cursing as he smelled the burnt lamb. "What the hell have you been doing in he-you made _cake_?" There were more bangs, followed by what sounded like a screeched curse (apparently vampires were susceptible to burns from hot cooking pans), and then footsteps moving towards the stairs.

"Jesus, is this a latent attempt to kill yourself because you just can't bear being a werewolf?" Mitchell asked, words muffled around the spoon in his mouth as he appeared at the edge of the bathroom doorway. He was clutching the mixing bowl of batter in one mittened hand, incongruous against his leather jacket. "Because it's bloody inefficient."

George looked blearily up at him, trying to sort through the miasma of pain and exhaustion and failure to say something that didn't involve throwing up on the floor in front of him. Mitchell's eyes widened and he glanced down at the bowl and then back up at George's wan expression.

"So should I take you to the veterinary hospital or the normal one?"

George groaned.

_2. Help Annie w/ self-actualization (note to self: ask Nina where she got such horrendous self-help books)_

"I dunno, George," Annie said, an expression of profound doubt on her face when she turned to look at him. "It sounds a bit ….airy, if you ask me." She accompanied this description with a complicated fluttering of hands that nearly knocked his glasses askew. "Oh, sorry."

He edged slightly away from her, sliding further into his corner of the sofa, and cleared his voice, ready to give her another lecture on why This Is A Brilliant Idea. "If you can make tea and do the washing up you must be able to do other physical things. You just have to concentrate."

Annie puffed out her cheeks, contemplating this bit of logic. "Well, it's not like I was going to do anything until _EastEnders _anyway."

George, feeling a bit put-out at her backhanded insult, had to stop himself from letting out an indignant squeak. This mainly involved much furious wiping of his glasses on his shirtfront.

She stood up and stepped in front of him, holding her arms wide, as if to say _and what now, genius?_.

"Focus on a piece of clothing."

"Like what?"

"Hmmm…something unforgettable?"

Annie paused, eyes closed as she sifted through what he could only assume were piles of clothing in her mind. She opened her eyes suddenly, a grin stretching her mouth wide. "I've got the perfect one."

George smiled back, thinking how amazingly easy this was. "Right. So really imagine it. Putting it on, buttoning it up, the way it hangs…or I don't know, something feminine like that."

She nodded and scrunched up her face, hands balled into fists by her sides, while George watched with bated breath. With a pop and a shriek from George her grey sweater changed into a familiar orange shirt decorated in a garish pattern.

It really did look like a woman's shirt, now that he saw it on someone else. Oops.

Annie bounced up on her heels, gleeful at her new trick. George clapped and grinned up at her, proud of his role in the situation.

It was only after Mitchell came home, saw Annie come from downstairs in her new outfit and choked on his swig of beer, that they discovered that actually taking clothes off was much harder than putting them on.

_3. Have a proper male bonding experience with Mitchell_

"But we've had a proper day out."

"Mitchell, you shot me in the _eye_ with a paintball gun. I fail to see how that was a 'proper day out'."

Mitchell shrugged and continued furiously tapping away at his game controller, eyes glued to the telly screen. Bastard. "You have to admit it was fun, George."

"Three eyedrop prescriptions. Three!" His voice squeaked upwards, which made him even more indignant. He stepped forward, blocking Mitchell's view of the screen, and continued, "Do you have any idea how bloody annoying it is putting plastic bits near your eyes?"

"I never knew you were into such kinky things. Does Nina know about your perversions?" A car on screen exploded, prompting Mitchell to do something complicated with his torso that looked like a rather sad version of a goalpoint dance.

"It's this or Ikea. Annie's been after me for ages about a new set of drapes for her room."

The game controller landed with a thump. Mitchell looked up with a wounded expression, mouth slack, too hurt to notice that his car had just driven into a lake onscreen and inexplicably exploded.

"You wouldn't."

George smirked.

Hours later, Mitchell turned to George with a bitter expression, eyes shaded underneath the peak of his cap and words muffled by his upturned collar. "The beach, George. I didn't even know we had a fucking beach, and yet _here we are_."

George looked up from the final turret on his elaborate sandcastle. "Look at humanity all around us, and we're a part of it for today. Just two blokes at the beach. …Though you could have taken off the gloves and sunglasses."

A shrieking child ran by, tossing sand into Mitchell's face. He coughed and accidentally dropped his cigarette, where it landed lit end down on his boot.

"You furry bastard. I hate you."


End file.
